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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24318529">a lesson in magic</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/leamhnachd/pseuds/leamhnachd'>leamhnachd</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Study, Family Bonding, Hoshido | Birthright Route, Post-Canon, Post-Fire Emblem Fates: Birthright</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 04:35:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,426</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24318529</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/leamhnachd/pseuds/leamhnachd</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Forrest wants to learn to do magic, has wanted it for years. But when the day finally comes, he starts thinking to himself... does he really have what it takes?</p>
<p>This was written for the Kith and Kin Family Zine.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Foleo | Forrest &amp; Leon | Leo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>a lesson in magic</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Father, teach me how to use magic</em>, he remembers begging, with the gaze of a gremlin and the voice of an angel. But regardless of all effort, of all desire, he had been denied. <em>When you are older, maybe</em>, he had been told, as if that could ease his excitement.</p>
<p>And now there he stands, in the guard’s mage recruit uniform in the barren courtyard. Of course his uniform is a bit nicer; the usual grey fabric obsidian and the washed out blue a deep shade of purple instead, just as decipherable as in the family’s flag blowing in the wind many metres above him. The hems are not frilled and the seams still new and tight, the elbow patches not even a bit worn off.</p>
<p>He feels the view of one of the three guards on him standing by the sides of the stairs. It is a woman, her bright blue eyes distinguishable even from such a distance. He searches her body with the eyes for the silhouette of a sheath or a scabbard, but he finds none.</p>
<p>So she is a mage. Perhaps a sorceress even. And a judging one, surely. And she will witness his first tries with the unknown matter, will see how the magic drips from his fingers in the helpless attempts to conjure a spell.</p>
<p>His gaze rests on the band on her upper arm, on the embroidered motive. How the carefully stitched yarn forms the shape of a star.</p>
<p>She is not there to judge him. She is there to heal him. To heal whoever will get hurt. So she had learnt to master both reason and faith; to find the neutral ground between two contrasting emotions.</p>
<p>How shameful it would be to require her service. What if something were to go wrong? Nightmare scenarios have filled his dreams every single night since the master had told him of his new class, regardless of all excitement.</p>
<p>
  <em>You see that brand on his face? All because he felt like trying to control something he was not meant to.</em>
</p>
<p>How shameful it would be to be considered such an utter failure.</p>
<p>He shakes his head to rid himself of the thought and a strand of grey hair falls into his face.</p>
<p><em>Grey. </em>The maid had braided his hair so tightly to keep it out of the face, but as always, the strands have become loose again. His hair is too soft to be kept in place.</p>
<p>He lifts a hand and awkwardly examines the skin on his fingers to seem at least somewhat busy. It is soft and rosy. Innocent. Even after all these years of swordplay, the weal and callus have been kept at bay. Would the flow of magic affect them more? He remembers having heard terrible stories of mages with curses and spells trapped inside their hand with the flesh slowly starting to rotten as the darkness consumed them from within.</p>
<p>Would he be one of the unfortunate ones? Would he seal his fate by trying to conjure the most cunning of magic? The one of a dark kind?</p>
<p>How do his father’s hands look like? As someone who managed to conjure a raging thunder storm by the age of six, surely his hands would vaticinate the truth. How odd that he cannot remember, regardless of how hard he tries to.</p>
<p>Maybe he should have made some hand gymnastics before coming here, like stretching before sword training. He is a fool to have spent his time hastily reading the pages of the book he had acquired from the library for the ten thousandth time, despite of knowing them by heart at this point. He is doomed to fail here, doomed to embarrass himself in such a manner.</p>
<p><em>Balance, discipline and control</em>. The holy trinity of conjuration.</p>
<p>People always say he resembles his mother more than the father. He has her round, green eyes, her bright laugh and warm temper. So surely did he inherit her affinity for magic as well, which was, if one gives any attention to the cruel rumours, less than a toothpick.</p>
<p>But one had to be cold to control magic. Utterly controlled, intelligent and ever stronger than the power itself.</p>
<p>On the other hand, he would be learning from the kingdom’s best sorcerer. So even if he only inherited an ounce of his father’s ability, surely there is some kind of hope in sight.</p>
<p>“Are you nervous, Milord?”, the master asks from beside him.</p>
<p>What a stupid question, he thinks to himself, but he keeps his calm composure. Just like he was taught to. Just like everyone expects of him to.</p>
<p>“Yes”, he then answers truthfully.</p>
<p>The master laughs smugly. “Well, you know what your father always uses to say – excitement- “</p>
<p>“is healthy, nerviness, however, a waste of energy”, he interrupts him, tired of the adage. “That is stupid. As if someone could ever control that.” He stares at the portal by the end of the stairs, as if he could summon his father to interrupt their conversation.</p>
<p>“Careful, Milord. Do not be swayed by your emotions now. It would not be well for you to get lost in temper now”, the master scolds him. “Magic senses your every inner turmoil.”</p>
<p>He turns his head to demonstrate his disapproval of the master’s words.</p>
<p>“Why are you even here?”, he demands to know with growing anger. “As far as I am concerned, you pride yourself in melee combat and are otherwise utterly useless in those arts that require more than simple muscle power and are merely here to impede my frugality, no?!”</p>
<p><em>He is usually not like that</em>, the master starts to think. <em>Not calm by any means, but never as hot-headed as right now… have the expectations gotten to his head already?</em></p>
<p>He genuinely wishes to answer to give the prince the slightest chance of not embarrassing himself, but his response is interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs in front of them. Both of their heads turn to see the father, a tall but lean man, descend them into their direction.</p>
<p>He wonders if he had inherited his father’s ability to create the desire in everyone in his surrounding to immediately bow one’s head simply by existing, that graceful of a presence did he possess.</p>
<p>The chances are low though, given how <em>little</em> the both really have in common.</p>
<p>His father’s long curly hair streams in the cold breeze of the autumn winds and the deep set sun colours it far more golden than it actually is, as he approaches them with calm but confident steps. Half of it was done up in braids, the other half loose down to the end of his ribcage.</p>
<p>If only he would look a bit more like him, perhaps the people would see a bit more of his strength in him. He would see himself in a better light. If only his eyes were as crimson, and his lashes as long. If only he were as tall as him and his posture as upright.</p>
<p>Then maybe he would not be such a disgrace, such a disappointment to everyone.</p>
<p>The guards and the master bow deeply, even a quiet <em>Your Majesty</em> escaping from the latter’s lips.</p>
<p>The father carries a tome under his arm, but he has yet to learn enough to decipher what it may be solely based on the binding.</p>
<p>“Good morning, son”, his father greets with that calm voice of his.</p>
<p>He knows he should wish him a good morning as well, but words are failing so he just stares back at him. He is far too nervous to form a coherent sentence right now.</p>
<p>As if he did not expect an answer anyway, the father crossed the arms behind his back and started to pace.</p>
<p>“I expect you to have heard of the fundamental principles of magic before. You read a hole book about it, after all.”</p>
<p>He bit his lip. He noticed when he was not supposed to, but then again, nothing escapes the king’s gaze.</p>
<p>“Balance. Discipline. Control.” Somehow the words sounded pregnant with meaning when he said it. “To simplify, one could say that is to tap the connection between a word and a meaning. A sound and a thought. All the way to the visualisation of a desire by enchanting the raw power bound to a tome. The power alone is chaos. It is the incantation and skill of the caster that determines the primal source. It is the caster’s task to give magic a serviceable form.”</p>
<p>He stretches out a hand to hand the tome over to his son.</p>
<p>“A fire tome is not only able to conjure a fire spell. It is merely easier to shape the power that is bound to the tome into the element of fire. The different labels on tomes quite are only a matter of practicality than anything else. Conjuring magic consumes energy, loads of it, so you might as well make it easier in the process. Open up.”</p>
<p>Without even being able to attempt to open it, the tome’s pages start jittering and abruptly stop again on a page that is filled with words.</p>
<p>“Most acquirable tomes are written in the ancient language, as this one forms the base for most traditional incantations, which is why most spell casters who only abuse magic for combat purposes are not necessarily utilising the tome for its benefits, but for the power that is bound to it.”</p>
<p>The tome snaps closed with a noise and the father leans in closer to make direct eye contact with his son. A subtle frown forms on his forehead and his expression gets even more serious than usual.</p>
<p>“That is dangerous, imprudent and rarely sustainable. To truly master the art of conjuration, it is a necessity to learn the ancient language.” His features relax and he straightens his back again. “However, as time passes you will learn to conjure with a thought, rather than words. That is not only faster, but more eff- why are you <em>crying</em>?”</p>
<p>The lump in the prince’s throat is too great to talk, so he just stands there with trembling shoulders, the gaze pinned straight to the floor and silent tears running down his pale cheeks.</p>
<p>The king audibly exhales and gently takes the tome out of his hands. This, however, results in him losing his last pillar of support, now he buries his face in his hands and slowly descends to the ground.</p>
<p>“Learning to control magic is a path filled with many an impediment and hardship. There are few who possess a natural talent for it, even less that manage without a tome. So tell me what it is that is making you afraid.” His voice is even calmer now, but more gently and soothing than before. “You are right to be afraid. Respect is fundamental, fear, however, only makes you more likely to lose balance.”</p>
<p>The prince frantically wipes his eyes with the back of a hand. This is humiliating. He is a disgrace, an utter and hopeless disgrace.</p>
<p>“You will never know unless you try.” The tome hovers in front of his face.</p>
<p>He had been waiting for this day his entire life. He had dreamed of the flow of magic on his skin countless times; had pretended like he lit up candles with only a finger snap. But now, all he wants to do now is run away and crawl into bed where no one has to see him. Not even he himself.</p>
<p>But that would be highly inappropriate. That would only make him the fool he sees in himself. That would make it obvious to everyone else. It would disappoint his father.</p>
<p>And honestly, there is no thought more terrifying than to see disappointment in his father’s gaze. Worse than rage, worse than hate, worse than anything. His father had never stopped teaching him the same thing again and again until he understood. He had never stopped believing in him.</p>
<p>So he cannot possibly bring up the audacity to stop believing in himself.</p>
<p>Besides, this is all he has left. While the practise with the sword and the lance fortunately have made respectable progress and he has proven to be rather handy in the usage of the bow, he does not really excel in any of those. Instead, he feels naturally drawn to the flickering lights of magic and often finds himself mesmerised by the mere thought of creating some from pure hypothesis.</p>
<p>“If it were hopeless, I would not try.” His father’s crimson gaze pins his own nearly down to the ground, but the reached out hand conveys a different message.</p>
<p>“To fulfil expectations is a burden of your own nature. The standards you feel like meeting are your own. But that is not what magic is about. Who are you to compare yourself to me, when I have more years of experience than let alone your age?”</p>
<p>The prince stares at the hand that hovers in front of his face.</p>
<p>
  <em>You will never know unless you try.</em>
</p>
<p>When he finally comes back to his feet he can see the sorceress smile gently from a distance. She is not judging at all, he must admit – only encouraging and caring.</p>
<p>“I am sorry to have disappointed you, father”, he mutters underneath his breath, suddenly quite ashamed of his previous behaviour again. “I only wished to please you, but ultimately… I failed, again.”</p>
<p>“Failure is as much a part of growth as progress is. Simply because something did not result in success, it does not ultimately connote failure. Failure is the natural regulation of self esteem, and therefore a necessary product in the attainment of a skill.” A mild smile plays around the corner of the king’s mouth. “You have already learnt one of the most important of life lesson in conjuration today.” With a smooth movement he passes the tome to his son.</p>
<p>“Well then, let us continue.” He turns around and paces a few steps.</p>
<p>The crown prince has the tome in his arms, still too afraid to open it by himself.</p>
<p>“Another important lesson”, the king contemplates loudly and turns to face his son. “You will only find others trusting you, if you trust yourself.”</p>
<p>He shakes his head gently and a golden strand falls into his face.</p>
<p>“Therefore, I am certain somewhere in there lies a confidence yet to be unveiled. You have faith in your abilities, you just do not know it yet. But I do. So you should, too, Forrest.”</p>
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